


The Day the Sky Cried Blood

by ArtsyAfrodite



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 19:52:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Butterflies weren’t supposed to mix with nerves and nausea, yet they did in the pit of his stomach. </p>
<p>There was a storm on the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day the Sky Cried Blood

_“Run towards the hills to avoid the high flood_

_I can do a dance to make the sky cry blood,_

_Skills provoke, and seals will be broken open_

_All that’s left to do is try my love…”_

~~~

 

“All of the holy water in every church in Chicago ain’t gonna wash that off son.”

He knew this, but he wanted to feel it.  He had to feel _something,_ like the supernatural arm that supposedly creeps up the flesh and washes one white as snow.  But you couldn’t feed him faith if you shoved it through a feeding tube down his throat.  Still, he had to try.  He fixed his green eyes on the homeless man as his hands rested in the bottom of the font, the clear water now a kaleidoscope of red.  It was more than blood that needed to be washed off – the filth was soul deep. 

This sanctuary wasn’t just for saints, but apparently for vagabonds and sinners to boot. 

A vacant face was all he had to offer.  He was still in a daze, the only thing escaping his mouth in response to the man being a half-grunt and mumble.

“I reckon it’s time for a confession?” the homeless man asked rhetorically.  His voice was low and scratchy, reminiscent of a heavy smoker.  He didn’t ask him why he was painted red, what happened or what was wrong.  He simply turned his head back towards the front.  “The nature of humans is weak son.  You can thank original sin for that.”  Ian looked blankly at the man.  His eyes, although green, were almost black and his eyebrows were stitched in a frown.  He still offered no response.  The homeless man simply shrugged his shoulders when he heard nothing.  “Looks like the sky just cried blood.”

And it wasn’t from Christ himself.  Ian removed his hands out of the water, not caring he had washed his transgressions into something clean, sacred and blessed for the children of the supposed Most High.  The water was unclean now, as were his tears as they streaked lines through the blood on his face, cleansing power no longer harnessed in them.  Lead legs made the journey to the front of the Church arduous.  The glances he received from an elderly couple on the front pew were like stones thrown and he was certain they themselves weren’t without debt, decades deep.  He stopped at the altar, but didn’t kneel.  He rubbed the blood on his neck and looked down at his hands.  Blood that isn’t your own is far more sinister on the hands – now you own that person’s sins, secrets and sorrow because it was all contained in the blood.  He wished he could give it back, but it was all seeped into his pores by now.

He looked at the donation box that hung from the wood and thought how much it would cost for a prayer and forgiveness.  One dollar and twelve Hail Mary’s?  But there was no price on his soul.  Ian glanced up at the plastic head of a dying Jesus.  He felt crucified just the same.  

Stepping inside the confession booth felt foreign to him.  He hadn’t done this since he used to get dragged to it as a child by Monica when she attempted to be a Christian.  He dropped his head and rested one bloody hand on the screen.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

*****************

[Two hours earlier…]

Everything was moving so quickly, his peripheral vision a mess of blurred images.  Dirty Timberland boots hit the pavement at a fast, steady pace, his lungs stung and his mouth felt like sandpaper.  He didn’t bother putting on a coat, the only thing covering his heaving chest being a black shirt and unbuttoned, red flannel shirt.  Ian couldn’t get there fast enough and he was certain he was too late.  His ears hurt from the voice he just heard, frightened and desperate, clinging to a glass half empty on the other end of the phone line.  Because that’s what it was – a half empty glass, the little water left spilled over the even smaller optimism.  So Ian ran, and ran.  He had to get to Mickey.

###

_“I’m busy Mickey,” Ian said nonchalantly over the phone.  “I can’t meet you at the dugout.”_

_“Can’t?  Or won’t?” Mickey asked.  He was sick of the chase already; bird-dogging like some bitch._

_“Doesn’t matter.”_

_“That means you won’t.”_

_“If that’s what you wanna think, fine.”_

_“No, it’s what you think.  You know – “ Mickey’s words were cut off by loud screaming in the background and the sound of a breaking bottle.  The phone on the other end was dropped, a loud thud ringing in Ian’s ear.  The voice was unmistakable and Ian felt his heart beat race at the sound._

###

He was almost there, but almost wasn’t nearly close enough.  Adrenaline coursed through his veins as sounds that could only be described as inhuman flooded his mind.  Why was Mickey so careless?  Ian wasn’t sure if he was more pissed that something that was supposed to be private was found when it could have been avoided, or if he was more shocked that it was something of _him._   Fuck.  Butterflies weren’t supposed to mix with nerves and nausea, yet they did in the pit of his stomach.

There was a storm on the way.

###

_His ears stood at attention.  Ian listened, the phone pressed hard against his ear.  He white-knuckle gripped the phone as the cartilage of his ear began to hurt.  He listened closer to the voice in the background._

_[“What the fuck is this?!”]_

_Terry._

_Mickey yelled back at his dad, the only audible words Ian could hear being, “Wait,” “It’s not what you think,” and “No.”  He panicked.  What the fuck was going on?  He nearly dropped the phone when he heard Mickey scream a scream that could only be described as a telegraph from pain.  There was shuffling in the background and the sound of bare feet running on the hardwood floor.  Someone picked up the phone.  Heavy breathing filled the receiver._

###

As Ian turned the corner, the Milkovich household now in his line of view, he was almost certain the sky emulated what was currently in the house of horros, the expanse directly above the house a mosaic of reds and dark grays.  It was an ominous thing, a bleak and crimson sky, the clouds dark and fat, looking as if they were on the verge of bursting showers of blood.  Screams filled the inside of the house, loud enough for Ian to hear them before being within a decent earshot of the place.  He finally found himself on the porch, frantically turning the knob.  It was locked of course.  Not wanting to ring or knock on the door, he gathered his strength.  He had to use the element of surprise.

###

_“Ian?!”_

_Mandy.  Her voice was full of fear._

_“What the fuck is going on Mandy?”_

_“M-mickey…he keeps…a picture of you.”_

_“What?” Ian asked confused.  Right now he couldn’t tell where Mandy was going with this.  “I don’t understand Mandy.  Slow down!”  Mandy’s breathing quickened as the sounds in the background became more gruesome._

_“Dad…he…he found it in Mickey’s gun magazine!” Mandy finally blurted out.  “You have to come help him Ian, please!  He’s gonna beat him to death.  Hurry, Ian please – “_

_The phone line went dead, but not before Ian got an earful of Mandy’s own screams._

###

He had to do this in one swift motion.  One shot.  That’s all he had.  More than once and Terry would receive too much of a warning that he was coming.  The screams behind the door were more than enough to increase his adrenaline, his heart pumping at a speed certain to make it burst through his rib cage.  Using every ounce of strength in his body, Ian stepped back and positioned himself at just the right angle.  He made sure to pick up the tire iron he gripped years ago – except this time he wasn’t going for Mickey.  He lifted his right leg and kicked with a force that created a sound nothing short of a small explosion.  The door practically flew off the hinges – so did his mind.

Ian was no stranger to bad situations, having been through more than his fair share of life threatening scenarios.  So his tolerance was at a level he thought could handle the most surprising of deals.  He couldn’t have been more wrong.  While he wasn’t expecting a scene from the Partridge Family behind the Milkovich door, he didn’t expect to see this.  He adjusted his green eyes; they were becoming cloudy while everything around him seemed to move in slow motion.  All he saw was Mickey lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood while Terry held Mandy against the wall with a knife up to her neck.  There was no one else in the house and he was high to the point he was out of his mind, his free hand frantically scratching everywhere on his body.

“I’m gonna kill you bitch,” Terry said in a low growl as Mandy’s frail body shook violently.  “Just like I did your faggot brother.” 

“No,” a shaky voice trailed behind Terry’s.  Ian noticed it was Mickey’s.  He tried his best to move on the floor, but the pain was too much.  That was all the motivation Ian needed.  No time to check on the boy he was certain he loved more than anything – more than himself.  He wasn’t afraid to die if that’s what it took to permanently end this cycle, to break the tie that bound their arms and legs for all these years.  Ian charged at Terry, the next moments only snippets and sounds – then black.

When Ian came to, he was wandering in the middle of the street, his face and hands bloody, his mind fragmented.  He felt partly out of his body, the only thing grounding him being the buzzing in his ears and in his pants pocket.  His phone was vibrating.  He answered without speaking, still not all there, only being able to make out the voice on the other end of the line as Mandy’s.  Her words were broken up, Ian only catching pieces of sentences.  _“Mickey….hospital…hurt badly…Terry…dead.”_

A 3x5 held the fate of a life in its frayed edges, creased lines.  And Ian will never forget the day he lost his mind.

**************

“When was your last confession?” the Priest asked.  Ian paused for a long time before answering.

“Never,” Ian offered.  And he hadn’t, not truly.  Until now.  

**Author's Note:**

> This one shot was inspired by the picture of Cameron/Ian covered in blood, the Church photo and a play on what Terry might do if he ever found the picture Mickey keeps of Ian. I was also inspired by the songs, "Storm Coming" and "Who's Gonna Save My Soul" by Gnarles Barkley (the opening lyrics are from "Storm Coming"). Some parts may seem a bit ambiguous, but I trust you will use your imagination! Yeah, it's a bit bloody and bleak, but hey, I enjoy writing the dark stuff. Nevertheless, thanks for reading. :)


End file.
